If patience is desired, persistence is the game
A long forgotten memory, is a face without a name
We’ve dismantled all the bridges, to that city on a hill
Transforming all our shovels into weapons that can kill

Your whine, is less displeasing as you age
If you crave a revolution, lift a finger, turn the page

Our songs of celebration, mask our feelings of regret
We stupefy the masses, with every chance we get
Singing lyrics not yet written, with our hands raised in the air
Sharing sermons of concern, just to let them think we care

Your whine, is not as bitter as your rage
If you crave a revolution, lift a finger, turn the page

There could be a great revival, if the dead would loose their grip
We might witness that progression, deep within the fellowship
A twisted sense of reason, leads a charge toward no return
Waiting for a sign, to let us know, that we have just been burned

Your whine, is getting sweeter as we age
If you crave a revolution, lift a finger, turn the page